i’d woken
up crying that morning. i must have been fourteen at the time. those
days, i was staying with my grandparents in delhi, while my parents were
in england for a couple of years.
the
cause of the barrage of tears was a dream, if one can call it that. in
it my mother was there, but she was slim and wearing a skirt.
i
can never quite adequately explain how scary that was, how alien, how…
could such a thing happen. even if it hadn’t occurred in reality.
i
wept so much, my grandmother had to make a fairly expensive trunk call
to my mother, and i think it was only after i spoke to her that i calmed
down. somewhat.
why
was i in such a state? well, to me, mother meant large, and saree. i’d
never seen her in anything else ever. and i couldn’t even conceive of
her as shapely or svelte. she was voluminous contours, generous girth,
all botero, absolute comfort and security. when i buried my face against
her my skin touched her saree, a thousand storms couldn’t knock her
down, she was safety. and she was far away. imagine my plight at being
struck by that vision as i slept, defences down.
a
skirt? she wore a parrot green and orange kanjeevaram to the jung frau
in the alps. there’s a shot of her at the ice museum, in fact, if any
proof is needed. frilly large cotton nighties that many mothers had
started wearing as we grew up, or salwars, churidars, lehengas… my
mother wore none of them. she was always in a saree, casually thrown on,
with a blouse of another colour because she couldn’t be bothered
getting matching ones, no attempt to be fashionable whatsoever, graceful
without trying to be so.
her
two years in the uk had her taking buses and tubes, the last time she’d
tackled public transport was in college, she managed with aplomb in her
saree. only compromise, instead of handloom or printed cottons and
kotas or silks that she usually liked to wear, she switched to mostly
printed synthetics. can’t say they were good to look at, but they were
convenient. actually, back in college too it was sarees. she told me she
started wearing them when she was thirteen, a year younger than i was
on the night of the bawling dream.
of
late, i find myself wondering whether i should start wearing a saree
every day. maybe all the time. like ma used to. the thought does drift
by every now and then and sets me mulling.
my
lovely grandmother, who called ma that day and made sure i was ok even
as my “nightmare” brought on much mirth in the family, also wore a saree
all the time. as did my other grandmother.
images
of crisp taañt or handloom cottons, usually white, worn the bengali
“shadha sheedhe” / plain and simple way, float by. my mother’s mother
wore silks or nylons (very in back in the sixties and seventies) when
she stepped out. then she preferred the pleats-in-front,
pallu-over-left-shoulder way of wearing the saree. my father’s mother
stuck to the shadha sheedhe style everywhere. i remember how deftly both
grandmothers tucked their sarees. a couple of swishes and voila.
though
my mother wore sarees from the time she was considered grown up
– tradionally, you ceased to be a child at thirteen i guess in many
cultures (okay, i’m rolling my eyes, this whole thing needs much
discussion) – she didn’t ever insist that i do the same.
as
a child, for some festivals i wore sarees, but really hardly ever.
somewhere along the way, when i was around twenty, i started wearing
them more often. over the years, i’ve been through a bit of a love-hate
relationship with this taken for granted garment. currently, it’s love.
but things might change any time.
so,
why do i ponder whether i should wear a saree every day? perhaps i want
to step into that circle where my mother sits with her arch smile.
where my grandmother’s eyes are gentle as they spot me, and my other
grandmother reads her mahabharata quietly. their sarees wrap around them
snug and comforting. soft and lucid.
should i just go ahead and do it?
well,
maybe not. at least, not right now. my pants and loose shirts are still
me. so are the long skirts, the block printed tops, the occasional
gharara or mekhela or something else, and of course the fading cotton
nighties (nightmare inducing for some).
for
now, let’s just wear a saree when i feel like it. as i did this
passover. the first night was on a shabbat. we were in london. it was
cold. we had to walk back home late at night after the seder. i wear
slight heels with my sarees, but walking on them is tough on my knees,
and this would be a forty-five minute trudge. i wore a saree anyway, and
ditched the heels too. at five foot nothing that is an act of sheer
courage.
my
daughter donned a cool black dress and didn’t have to hold her pleats
aloft in a tight grip as we plodded home at 3am, wrapped in sweaters and
coats. who knows, maybe some day she’d want to…
there i go dreaming again.
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sarees tell stories | maroon fine tangail saree with peach motifs, unusual four leaf clover motif, from meera basu, kolkata, bought around 2008.
first night of passover was on a shabbat, a friday.
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